Jack Frost Nipping at our Noses
by Shambhalasoulful
Summary: Leave it to the Hobbit to single-handedly ruin a centuries-long tradition.


**A/N**: There goes my streak of quick writing. I hope you all enjoy this little piece of Batfamily holiday cheer, which took me way too long to write up. Happy Holidays, everyone, and let me know what you think!

**Warning(s)**: Family fluff, Damian, and no Jason. I'm ashamed.

**Disclaimer**: The Batman franchise is the property of DC Comics. May they have a lovely holiday.

* * *

Tim knew it was officially the holiday season when Dick arrived at the manor chanting carols and tossing tinsel onto every available surface that wasn't physically occupied by a member of their family.

Too bad their holiday season arrived five days _after _Christmas.

The _real_ Christmas was spent sabotaging the plans of Calendar Man, who celebrated the holiday by attempting to hang _human_ ornaments from his own manufactured tree. If Tim is to be honest, their family didn't even acknowledge Christmas until Dick called with his promised warning of holiday cheer, set to descend on Wayne Manor in three…two…one…

In a matter of minutes, Bruce's pristine office was draped with red, gold, and green, his carefully organized folders decorated with glitter. Alfred's kitchen was awash with the earthy scent of pine needles, and the large living area echoed with the jolly laughter of Bludhaven's protector (and the groans of his victims).

By the evening of December 30, hand-knitted stockings hung over the blazing fireplace (a ridiculous tradition, Damian exclaimed, though he did seem pleased to see his own name glittered on the smallest sock), rainbow-colored bulbs lined the kitchen's countertops and edges, and a gargantuan tree stood proudly in the living room's corner, almost unrecognizable beneath the mountains of lights and ornaments.

For Dick, it was all in a day's work that Wayne Manor be prepared for Jolly Ol' Saint Nick.

For the others, it was a Christmas blessing that they survived the onslaught at all.

Tim awakens to the soft bite of cool air against his cheeks, an odd sensation when compared to the solid warmth of his blankets and pillow. For once, he fights the urge to rise with the sun (he spent _way_ too much time with that paperwork last night), and burrows further under his coverlet, eyes closed in content.

He only stirs again when he feels the definitive shuffling of a body next to him, warm breath trailing against the shell of his ear and a familiar chuckle rumbling through his back. A slight wrinkle of his brow is the only sign of his irritation, and the chuckle rises to a laugh as a thumb jokingly presses into the space between his eyebrows, smoothing away the crease of skin.

He lifts a hand to swat the hand away. "Dick. _Go away_."

Another shift of the mattress, and suddenly the covers are ripped from his body, the cold air whooshing against his t-shirt and boxers. He immediately sits up to the sight of Dick's sparkling grin, and despite his annoyance, he smirks at the healthy flush on his brother's tan skin as he playfully ruffles his bedhead.

"C'mon, Timmy, Alfred wants us downstairs for breakfast, ASAP!" The older man grabs Tim by the shoulders and drags him into his private bathroom, where he promptly begins to strip the teen of his nightclothes.

He's aiming for his boxers when Tim backs away with his hands up. "Thank you, Dick, but I think I got it from here."

"Oh. Right." Dick shrugs with a chuckle and ruffles his hair one more time before prancing (_like the reindeer_, Tim thinks) from the bathroom, and Tim swears he sees a bright ray of glitter trailing in his wake.

Fifteen minutes later, Tim trails down the stairs to the kitchen, the scent of sausage and gingerbread pancakes wafting through his nostrils. His stomach grumbles lightly, and he pats it in apology.

_Skipped a complete dinner last night to finish those case files. Good thing Alfred cooks in bulk._

When he enters the intimate dining area, Bruce is seated at the bar station, occupied with the morning paper and his favorite mug. On the small serving plate is a candy cane, its straight end stained brown. Tim grins.

_Looks like Dick tried to infuse some 'holiday spirit' in Bruce's coffee…_

His grin widens as he greets his mentor and notices the Christmas tie attached to his shirt's collar.

…_And it seems he managed to succeed in other ways_.

Tim can see Dick scurrying around in the kitchen with Alfred, charming tenor resounding around the entire space. He takes a seat next to Bruce and immediately receives a cheerful "Good morning, Master Timothy" from Alfred, along with a large stack of smiling pancakes, no doubt courtesy of Dick's special touch. As he takes a bite (he's never been one for the sugary sweetness of syrup), he watches Alfred do the same to a recently arrived Damian, who raises a single brow at the cartoon faces made of whipped cream and chocolate chips.

"What is this?"

"Your breakfast," Tim answers, easily anticipating the boy's difficulty, "The meal you consume in the morning, remember?"

Damian doesn't spare him a glance, too occupied with the grinning food on his plate. "Thank you as always for your useless input, Drake. I ask why my breakfast is so idiotically presented."

"Because it's Christmas, Lil' D!" Dick trounces into view, his own plate of food in his hands, and Alfred follows with fresh orange juice and a pot of coffee. "Everything is decorated at Christmas time, even food!"

"Absolutely ridiculous," Damian retorts, his fork scraping the whipped cream smile from his cake. "Meals are for sustenance and nourishment, _not_ your childish revelries."

"Says the boy who ate up the cookies Alfred made for Santa." Tim smirks at the light flush that dusts the boy's cheeks, and he takes another bite of cinnamon goodness to hide a laugh.

"Nonsense. I was simply preventing _your _wastefulness." Damian scoffs, though his cheekbones remain pink. "Imagine, a man your age leaving food out so an even older man can steal into our home and leave useless gifts we haven't even asked for."

"Don't know about you, but I asked for a new trapeze." Dick expertly takes the boy's criticisms in stride, the same carefree smile on his lips as he sits next to him and ruffles his hair. "What are you going to ask for, Dami?"

The boy scoffs at the question. "Nothing I cannot provide for myself. Only you would believe in such rubbish, Grayson."

"If it helps spur your creativity, Master Damian, I have asked the Saint Nicholas for a new cutlery set. I'm afraid my current collection has finally worn through its paces."

As Dick's grin widens, Damian eyes the butler skeptically, though his brow furrows in curiosity. "You also believe in this fairy tale, Alfred?"

"Of course. The good Saint Nick has been around since even my childhood, and not once has he ever failed to deliver just what I wanted."

Tim smiles at the look of confusion on Damian's face, then starts as the young heir turns to him. "And you, Drake? Surely your scientific mind, however inadequate it may be in missions, is not slave to such fancy."

Too gleeful to resist, Tim sends the boy a cheeky grin. "I wished for a new set of encyclopedias."

At Damian's spluttered face, Dick falls against the counter with a guffaw, and Tim snickers as Damian quickly schools his expression into more regal appearance and sticks his nose in the air with a _tsk_.

"Should have known _you_ would provide yet another disappointment."

"Damian." Bruce speaks for the first time since the boy entered, and they all turn their attention to him as he regards his son with a slight tilt of his lips. "There's nothing wrong with believing in something, even if that belief is a bit more…abstract than the concrete world we live in."

"Similar to religious beliefs and practices. I understand that, Father." Damian purses his lips, then dives in with a vengeance. "But how do we know this 'Saint Nicholas' is not some ancient _villain_ using an imitation of my grandfather's Lazarus Pit so he can continue rigging the world with his 'gifts', which are in reality microscopic weapons of mass destruction that he plans to detonate at his leisure!"

…Silence, and Tim takes his time to survey the room. Bruce is staring at the boy expressionless, though Tim can see his mouth minutely twitching. Alfred releases a quiet cough and refills Bruce's mug, wizened eyes crinkled at the corners. Tim almost loses his stoicism at Dick's face. The eldest brother looks horrified, his mouth gaping, his hand clutching his chest as if in mortal pain.

Damian looks proud of his claim, apparently convinced that he's trumped all four men with a busted-open case none of them ever considered.

Tim himself is not surprised. _Leave it to the hobbit to single-handedly __**ruin**__ a centuries-long tradition._

Bruce is the first to move, and he reaches out a hand to carefully lay it against his child's shoulder. "However ingenious such a plan may be, Damian, the plausibility of it is minimal. Trust me, there's no foul play in the legend of Santa Claus." When Damian opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, Bruce tightens his hold and looks him in the eye. "_Trust_ me. I _checked_."

Another second or two of contemplation, and Damian finally nods. "Very well, Father."

"Good." Bruce offers another comforting squeeze, and thanking Alfred for the coffee, returns to his paper.

Because Dick still resembles a trauma victim, Alfred takes the initiative. "So, Master Damian, since you are now convinced that Santa Claus is not a lover of mass genocide…" At that, Tim coughs into his fist, "What will you request for Christmas?"

The boy sniffs with a superior air. "Naturally, I desire the mantle of the Bat." Tim rolls his eyes and takes a sip of orange juice. "However…for now, I will be content to receive a _full_ night of patrol."

Bruce's brow rises in speculation. "I'll see what Santa can do about your bedtime. That's all you want?"

"Yes." He regards Tim with a light sneer. "Unlike some people, _I_ need nothing but the necessities."

Tim rolls his eyes and lightly kicks his foot against Dick's calf, who jumps and launches into an enthusiastic spiel about the special holiday shows of Haly's Circus. When he grabs Damian to imitate a special Christmas rendition of the human cannonball, the boy lets out an enraged shout. The kitchen's remaining occupants, effortlessly overlooking the noise, continue their meal in peace.

Tim accepts a section of Bruce's paper. _Maybe I should add noise-cancelling headphones to my list._


End file.
